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It was when the leaves fell in the fall
that the boy started talking to himself.
All summer long the heat was a delirium and there was no time
to sink down by a tree bole,
the mosquitoes or sweat got him moving.
At home his mother vacuumed in a panic
busied herself with dishes, rugs, food and clothing
he was always a bit leery
he much preferred the quiet house, listened to its creaking
at twilight, now a roof-beam, a floorboard.
The empty house was big and hollow and there was peace.
The boy was the horse's friend,
and brought him things at night.
In the fall he came to squat under a tree
with a carrot in his left pocket and two sugar lumps
his left pocket enveloped in orange, imagined
the horse wishing him up, when he
threw the sadness off into the leaves
sucking on the sweets.
No one came to find him, though some afternoons
his mother called from the house
he ignored that voice, a pebble
rolling down the street, rubbing leaves in gentle
wind, a cat from a rooftop calling. A bird
overhead, its singsong streaking.
Insects laboring around leaves made rustling sounds
in their own time, and everywhere sunlight falling
even the stones were warm.
Just beyond sight, sunlight turned to water falling
and wind, water rushing by. Under the striped shadow-branches
uncareful with his eyes, the world, uncaring
hidden deep in the dreaming shell of woods
beneath rolling waves, deep and silent beyond small movements
he furtively nurtured a pearl, where he sat, beneath his feet
one perfect seed, a Milky Way, a condensation of all he could not see.
It would be one raindrop, one tear, one of the sun's rays
changed into perfect rings.
Richard Gilbert
© 2003
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